


Oh, Shit.

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry!John, Fluff, John is not gay, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, a bit of a domestic, hahahahaha, letswritesherlock, smug!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the "Let's Write Sherlock" prompt:</p><p>After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is just a prompt fill, it is unbetaed and unbritpicked. Feel free to drop corrections in the comments.

Sherlock thinks he can beat John up the stairs and lock himself in his room, but Mr. Lankylegs has another thing coming. John tosses more money than he probably ought at the cabbie and is on Sherlock's heels before he even opens the front door. He ducks under his flatmate's arm and beats him inside, using his advantage to turn on the lowest stair, cross his arms, and glare.

“We're going to talk. Now.”

“On the stairs?” Sherlock smirks, but John has known him long enough to see through that condescending shit.

“Don't think I don't know you, Sherlock. We go upstairs and you lock yourself in your room or ignore me and play your bloody violin.”

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Talk.”

“No, you talk! What the hell was that? Lestrade almost had a heart attack.”

Sherlock slowly strips off his gloves, folding the soft black leather before putting them in the pocket of his coat. He takes two steps toward John, putting him firmly inside of John's comfort zone, but John does not back down. “You wish to discuss Lestrade, then?”

The step makes John almost tall enough to meet Sherlock's eyes without looking up. Canting his chin stubbornly gets him the rest of the way there. “No. Fine. _I_ almost had a heart attack.”

“Your cardiac health is impeccable,” Sherlock scoffs, “still, best to be certain.” One slender pale hand reaches up to settle over the pulse point on John's neck and the army doctor finally loses his composure. He stumbles back, tripping over the stair behind him and landing on his arse on the third stair. Sherlock smiles.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing!” John thunders.

“Gathering data,” Sherlock smiles again and holds out the same hand to help John up.

John grits his teeth, hauls himself up using the railing, and stomps up the stairs to their flat.

“I thought you wanted to talk on the stairs,” Sherlock teases.

“Just get up here, and I swear to god if you start playing that violin I will throw it out the window.”

“John,” Sherlock admonishes as he climbs the stairs with studied casualness, “that's a Stradivarius, you wouldn't dare.”

John slams the door behind Sherlock as soon as he steps into the sitting room. “Don't test me.”

Because, of course, that's exactly what Sherlock is doing. He lets his coat slip slowly off his shoulders, rolling them to encourage it to fall to the ground. His shoes come next as he settles himself on the arm of the sofa for leverage and unties the laces. They end up tossed near the wall along with his socks. 

John takes off his coat and hangs it up on the coat rack like a civilized person, then returns to crossing his arms and glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs and falls onto the couch on his back, his long legs continue to hang over the arm. He folds his hands over his stomach and pouts at John. “You want to have a row. I don't want to have a row.”

“Then explain yourself!” John yells, startling himself. “Oh god,” he rubs a hand over his face and starts pacing the sitting room, “I'm yelling,” he says, “I might as well be screaming at the wall.”

“I have a skull for that,” Sherlock points out.

“I'm going to throttle you,” John says.

Sherlock shrugs. “If it will make you feel better, get on with it.”

“Sherlock, I almost died!”

“But you didn't.”

“You don't care.”

“On the contrary John, I care very much that you didn't die. I thought my behavior made that exceedingly obvious.”

“Nothing about what just happened is obvious!” John snaps. 

“Isn't it?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow in his direction.

“No, it bloody well isn't!”

Sherlock sighs. “This is tedious. Can't we just continue?”

“Continue _what_ , exactly?”

Sherlock is off the couch and looming over John before he can react. John barely stops his pacing before he runs directly into the man. 

“Sherlock, I swear if you touch me again I will punch you,” John frowns, almost a bit frightened now, but he's looked worse enemies in the eye than a mad flatmate and he will get his answers.

“Well,” purrs Sherlock, “at least then you will be touching _me_.”

John shoves Sherlock back a few steps with both hands and advances. “This is not going to go the way you want it to go.”

Sherlock smiles. “It's already going the way I want it to go.”

John shoves him again and Sherlock stumbles back but his smile doesn't falter. 

“Why are you so happy?”

“You're angry.”

“You're happy that I'm angry?”

“Yes!”

John shoves Sherlock one more time and he stumbles back against the window. “You can't just snog a straight bloke in front of half the yard and then swan off like nothing happened! Sherlock, that was mortifying!”

Sherlock perches on the windowsill and tilts his head. “You aren't angry because you're embarrassed, John.”

“They _applauded_ , you arse! Applauded!”

Sherlock chuckles.

“It's not funny!” John balls his hands into fists.

“You were rather enthusiastic for a 'straight bloke'.”

“Kiss a lot of straight blokes, do you?”

“I might do.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock shrugs and smiles that infuriating smile again. 

“You have no idea why that wasn't okay, do you?”

“It was brilliant, John!”

“No, Sherlock, it wasn't! You can't do things like that without asking!”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, “I see.” He pauses, then looks up at John through his lashes. “John, can I kiss you again?”

“No!” shouts John, “Jesus Christ Sherlock _I am not gay_!”

“If that were entirely true, you wouldn't be this angry with me,” Sherlock says with a radiant smile.

“I am not gay, and I am this angry with you,” John points out.

“If you didn't feel anything, if you didn't care, you would have shrugged it off as just another eccentricity of mine, but instead you are angry. You are angry because you liked it.”

“That's not the point!”

“You aren't denying it.”

John groans and sighs at the same time, a sound of surrender and frustration. “I hate you.”

“No you don't.” Sherlock smiles again, but doesn't move from the windowsill.

John gives up and retreats to his chair. He picks up a journal. “Yes, I do.”

“No you don't.”

“I do.”

“You don't.”

“I do.”

“You don't.”

This goes on for a few minutes before John inevitably accepts his loss because he knows Sherlock can be this childish much longer. 

“Fine, I don't. Now shut up.”

Sherlock leaps off the window sill, not bothering to disguise his glee. He plants himself in his chair across from John and stares at him pretending to read his journal. 

“John,” he says.

John sighs. “What?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“I already said no, Sherlock. No. No. No.”

Sherlock is silent for another minute, during which John pretends to read an article about something he couldn't tell you about later if his life depended on it. 

“John,” Sherlock says again.

“What?” John snaps.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“No. Stop asking.”

Sherlock waits an entire five minutes before asking again.

“John.”

“I am going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Then I won't sleep.”

“That'll be something new,” John rolls his eyes.

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Oh god,” John puts his head in his hands.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“No!”

This time three minutes pass.

“John.”

“No.”

Five minutes.

“John.”

“No.”

This carries on for almost forty minutes before John gives up again.

“John.”

“If I let you kiss me again, will you go to bed and leave me the hell alone?”

Sherlock smirks. “Yes.”

John sighs and puts his hands on the arms of the chair, trying to be casual. “Fine. Have at it.”

Sherlock slides out of his chair and kneels in front of John. “I am very glad you are alive, John.” He leans forward and plants a kiss on John's lips that is as gentle as the previous one was rough. 

John does his best not to participate or react, and mostly succeeds. He simply sits passively and allows Sherlock to caress his lips with his own insanely soft ones. If he were thinking about it, which he isn't, he'd say Sherlock was a very good kisser, but he isn't thinking about it. At all. He is thinking about that article about something. It was a very interesting article. Probably.

Sherlock pulls back after only a moment. His smile makes it all the way to his eyes. 

“Happy?” John asks, opening his eyes, which had unconsciously closed during the kiss. Dammit.

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“Good, now go to bed,” John scowls.

Sherlock leaps to his feet. “I'm going to bed. You could come with me, you know.”

“Don't push it,” John deepens his scowl.

Sherlock chuckles. “Very well. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight.” 

Sherlock prances off to his room, humming to himself.

John sighs and tries to relax. His lips still tingle from the kiss and he is half hard. 

He puts his head in his hands again, breathes.

Finally, barely a whisper: “Oh, shit.”


End file.
